Sherlock Holmes: Dead Man Walking
by reflectiveless
Summary: Takes place where season 2 ends, just after the fall. It's a build up to Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**I am not sure how many chapters I will be writing for this. I will be posting regularly though. Any advice and criticisms are warmly welcomed. **

Chapter 1

John stood at the head of his best friends grave, frozen with the sorrow of knowing he would never see Sherlock again. He didn't speak at first, not knowing what to say and debating in his mind if a dead man could actually hear his words or not. He finally spoke, though it was mostly just to hear his own thoughts spoken out loud.

"You were my best friend, and no one can make me believe that you would ever lie to me, not even yourself."

John barely noticed the breaking of a branch behind a thick tree four meters away from him, but he chose to ignore it. It was likely some small creature anyway. He fell into silence again, having a hard time breathing while suppressing the unconscious urge to weep. John stepped closer to the head stone gently placing his hand on the top where the smooth granite was cut and much coarser. He thought of all the things he had never said to friend, previously thinking he was more machine then man to understand him. He realized now how wrong he was though, Sherlock was very human indeed.

"Just do one last thing for me Sherlock. Don't be dead. Please. Please, just don't be dead." He knew his words were futile and that the corpse six feet below in an elaborate thick slab of wood can't hear him and never will again. He was wrong about this as well.

Sherlock Holmes was also frozen, but he was being weighed down from different guilt, not of the things he could have said and no longer can but of all that he could say now in this moment and must force him self to keep in. Sherlock would do near anything to simply walk out from behind the tree and smile at his only friend. It was breaking his soul to hear John talk about him like that, saying how he had always known that Sherlock really was the genius detective he claimed to be. The doubt that had seeped into the minds of everyone he had known destroying his life, had miraculously missed Watson entirely. Watson was the only man that might have understood a fraction of who Sherlock Holmes was and he certainly didn't want to lose him. Listening to the muffled words of his friend, Sherlock contemplated what he could do to get out of his situation. Moriarty is dead, but what of the hit men? He had said his men would John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if he was not dead. There was no way to reveal the truth without putting them in harms way, so first, he had to make sure they were safe.

John had originally planned on staying elsewhere after the funeral, the flat he had resided in along side his friend on 221B Bakers Street held too many memories for him now. But he had failed to make any arrangements for the time being and with the little amount he had left, he likely did not have the funds to find a new residence any time soon. Sherlock was in luck as John decided to avoid going to their flat as he left the graveyard, instead he paid a visit to the first restaurant that he and Sherlock had eaten in together. John fondly remembered how he had left his cane there while in pursuit of a criminal.

After making sure John was not in fact going to their old flat, Sherlock headed straight home with his collar up and a hat he found on a park bench covering his eyes. No one expects to see a dead man walking after all. Mrs. Hudson was in the pastry shop next door, clearly visible by the large glass window in front. She seemed to be crying into a cup of tea as an elder man dressed in his Sunday best sat slightly too close to her with his lips curled slightly too high for a man supposedly comforting a grieving woman. Sherlock made a mental note of this before discreetly entering his flat.

"Thank god she hasn't boxed the lab yet." Sherlock murmured to himself when he saw all his experiments were still set up as if nothing had happened.

He was sure that he had already found every camera in the apartment that Moriarty had set up, so now it was time to place a few of his own. It was imperative to keep a close eye on the people he needed to protect after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

**I apologize for the wait, I broke my thumb shortly after posting the last chapter- you can't make weird stuff like that up. I also noticed a mistake I made in chapter one, I used the expression '6 feet under', which is obviously not an English expression XD I have no idea if there is an equivalent expression to that. I feel kind of silly for making such a blatant mistake.**

As John brought a tea cup up to his mouth to sip he noticed his hand was shaking uncontrollably. He quickly put the cup down before shattering it, but his hand was still shaking. Had the intermittent tremor come back? He wondered.

"Why would he jump? It just doesn't make any sense. I know he didn't care about what people thought of him, even the horrible things they will probably print in the paper." John slumped in his seat in front of the window. Things hadn't quite clicked in his mind yet when Angelo came to his table.

"You look exhausted, you should just go home and rest now. I know it's hard to loose someone you love." Angelo's voice was as hoarse as always.

"What? No, no, we weren't… I'm not even… oh it doesn't matter now." He hung his head again.

The walk home felt like an eternity, Angelo hadn't even charged him for the half eaten food. John wondered if Angelo's old agreement for Sherlock and 'guests' to eat free had been inherited by him. For once John didn't care if he was flat broke, it seemed like nothing mattered now. He could feel his left hand still shaking in his jacket pocket as his leg slowly stiffened.

A newspaper stand stood two meters from the steps of 221B, John grabbed one without looking at the front. His leg nearly gave way as he climbed to his door. John eyed the knob before twisting it.

"Unlocked?"

Did he have something to fear on the other side? Or had he just been careless before going to the funeral? He had never forgotten to lock the door before, but then today was a special circumstance. He opened it slowly just in case, eyes gliding around the room.

John wasn't sure if something was different or if his mind was playing tricks on him. Then it could also just be Sherlock's absence.

He sat down on the simple greenish tan couch and unfolded the paper.

"Fraud Genius Commits Suicide."

"Great… I'll just try the inside then."

"Confirmed Bachelor John Watson…"

"What? Why do they keep calling me that? Confirmed how?"

"… mourns the loss of Sherlock…" John threw the paper across the room.

"Why am I even included in this? He's cock blocking me from beyond the grave now."

A firm knock came from the door.

"If you're a reporter my quote is 'I'm not gay!' "

"I'll keep that in mind when I write your biography." A familiar voice replied.

"Mycroft!?" John jumped off the couch to open the door.

Meanwhile Sherlock crouched in the closet, not expecting John to come back so fast.

'What the devil is my brother doing here?'

He adjusted himself so he could peer out the wood slots, he could tell John was leaning against the doorframe for support, why? John hadn't needed his cane in a year in and a half, why would he need it now?

"I brought you something, I thought you should have it John." Mycroft held out a thin white box.

"Oh, thank you," John flipped the lid over revealing Sherlock's scarf, his eyes began to water.

"I'm sure he would have wanted you to have it."

"Yes, yes… thank you."

Sherlock strained to peek though the shades at what it was the two were fussing over. A shot of blue fabric caught his eye as John wrapped the scarf around his own neck.

"Did you want tea or anything" John half heartedly mumbled as he admired the scarf with tears in his eyes. He didn't actually expect Mycroft to stay,

"As a matter of fact I think I will."

Sherlock nearly shouted out loud, what the hell was Mycroft doing here? His escape plan was all messed up now and every second he stayed there the chances that John would find him heightened.

John scurried into the kitchen filling a pot with water.

"I um, was thinking of moving soon." He wasn't sure how to make small talk with Mycroft, he barely knew him really.

Sherlock's heart sank when he heard that. He would have to speed up his plan if he wanted John to stay here.

"Oh I see. Any idea of where you might be moving to?"

"Well, I would have to find someone else to live with to supplement the pay or move out of the city." John didn't particularly like either idea.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, "Molly, I don't care how you do it, but get Mycroft out of my flat now." She was the only one that knew he was still alive, she had helped him fake his own death after all.

She was right when she had previously said she was unimportant, no one would think she of all people would have any information on him. But then she had also become very sick of him since he started staying in her backroom the past week.

The light on sherlock's phone came on.

"What? How?"

"I don't know, think of something. Tell Lestrade John is having a mental fit or something. I'm trapped in the closet."

"Alright."

Twenty agonizing minutes past as Mycroft actually engaged in 'small talk', even John looked as though his nerves were wearing thin. A knock came from the door, Mycroft scowered.

"Lestrade, I didn't expect to see you."

Upon hearing the name Mycroft stood up, umbrella in hand, and made for the door.

"Sorry John, I should really be leaving now." He slid my Lestrade on his way out.

John wasn't sure what to make of his odd appearance at his flat, but decided to turn his attention towards Lestrade now.

"Is there something I can do for you?" He noticed Lestrade had a confused expression on his face.

"Uh, are you alright?"

Johns gaze left him and became unfocused. "I… I dunno."

Lestrade then notices John was wearing Sherlock's scarf, slightly surprised he wasn't buried with it. Regardless, this was clearly not the emotional break down that Molly seemed to be describing.

"Well, just let me know if you need anything then." Lestrade then realized without Sherlock John had no reason to come down to the station anymore like he was accustomed to, but he wasn't sure how to mention it would be nice if John still visited.

**Reviews are amazing, please review this, even negative criticisms. I'll try not to break any more fingers. :3**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had finally found a moment to sneak out of the flat, John had entered Sherlock's room and hadn't come out in hours, Sherlock's conclusion is that the doctor must have fallen asleep in there.

It felt good to stretch his legs again after being cramped sitting in a closet for half a day. He peered into his room where the door had been left open, John was in fact passed out on Sherlock's bed and even stranger, he was still wearing the blue scarf. Sherlock lingered longer then he probably should, he wanted to wake john right then and tell him to stop fretting about, but John had the worst poker face. If he had revealed he faked his own death to John, it wouldn't be soon before everyone knew, which was just too dangerous while there was still hired assassins about. No, unfortunately his big reveal would have to come later. Sherlock scowled at this thought. If only John had been clever enough to deduce his death was faked on his own. He had given him all the clues he needed after all.

"I'm sorry John, but do figure it out quickly" Sherlock whispered to his sleeping flat mate before sneaking out the door.

There were five men Sherlock had to kill, technically four men and one woman, but it made no difference to him. If all went right, tonight would end with blood on Sherlock's hands. The faster those five were gone the sooner he could return to his life, and if John really was planning on moving out, time was a critical point.

Sherlock walked briskly as he turned the nearest corner from the flat down an ally, to his surprise a thick squat man stood leaning against a wall smoking. Several used up smokes lay on the ground at his feet. _Chain smoking, a few hours, _Sherlock thought. Was he really this lucky? This man seemed to be one of the ones he was looking for. Sherlock pulled the front of his found hat lower on his face as he slowly approached the man. The man made no reaction until Sherlock was nearly right in front of him. He lit a match to light a new cigarette, the flame for just a moment illuminating the face of a man he thought was dead, knew was dead. The man's eyes lit up like firecrackers making him forget his sense long enough to stop him from pulling his gun.

Sherlock's slim fingers had already grabbed the piece before the man could look down.

"But yer dead. I seen you fall." He braced himself for the inevitable.

"Magic trick." Sherlock grinned as he thought back on the simple yet very effective plan he had come up with to fake his own death. "Too bad we don't all have a double."

Sherlock fired the gun into the man's heart, he died almost immediately, he was glad the failed assassin had the sense to put a silencer on the gun and that he had the good sense to wear gloves.

John shot up out of bed, only then realizing he had passed out on Sherlock's bed fully clothed. He was a mess and he knew it. His eyes jolted to the window at the empty street. Nothing seemed to be going on outside, nothing that could explain why he woke up so suddenly at least. He wandered out of the room into the unlit living room. Something seemed off, but he wasn't sure what exactly. The closet was slightly ajar, but that wasn't quite enough to constitute the room as 'different.' He sat alone in the dark of the room looking across to chair where Sherlock's violin still rested, waiting forever to be played again. John brought his legs up on the chair, his arms wrapped around them. He knew it would be a while before he could let go of his friend. But he just couldn't leave this flat, not now anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm updating sooner then I thought I would be, I felt bad that the last chapter was a bit short so I kept on writing. This chapter is still just the story, but it's also possible my fake suicide explanation is close to what happened in the show, we wont know for sure until next season though. Thank you to everyone that has reviewed! I love to read them and they really encourage me to write. :)**

Chapter 4

It had been simple really, faking his own death. Moriarty had been clever when he paid a man to have plastic surgery to look exactly like Sherlock, causing a young kidnapped girl to mistake Sherlock as her kidnapper. The seeds of doubt had been sewn, for Donavan it had even been the nail in Sherlock's coffin when the girl screamed her head off as Sherlock attempted to interrogate her to no avail. But it was foolish for Moriarty to let Sherlock able to deduce this, it allowed him to his the man's corpse as his own. The man had to die of course, there was no way Moriarty could afford for a second Sherlock to be running around, especially one as dimwitted at the man he paid to do it. It was a shame Moriarty assumed the body had been taken care of by another well paid man, but help was hard to come by these days. The body had been thrown over a bridge, but when the body hit the rocky cliffs instead of falling into the water, the man simply had a lack of caring, figuring the high tide would come soon enough and carry the body away.

The fake Sherlock had arrived on Molly's table the morning before the fall. Thinking the resemblance to Sherlock was too uncanny to not mention, she had promptly texted Sherlock about it.

"-New body just in, striking resemblance! You really should see it! x x"

It had been in the back of Sherlock's mind the whole day, he hadn't got a chance to see it until an hour before his meeting with Moriarty on the roof. Moriarty's second mistake, letting Sherlock decide upon the place and time of their meeting. Really, Moriarty was proving himself dumber by the minute that day.

It was Molly that he had chosen to call in his hour of need, she had the body he so desperately needed, and was able to wait two stories below the roof, prepared to toss the body through the window after she had the proper equipment to do so. Moriarty had been a fool, not realizing by dictating the location, Sherlock had set himself up to be forced into jumping off the building. It was only logical that this would be Moriarty's last demand of his favorite detective. Sherlock did not expect for the man to shoot himself first though, although in the end that had made it easier to get the timing right on jumping from the roof at the exact moment that a large waist truck drived by, allowing him to land on the top of the truck as a second body identical to his fell from a different window where Molly was waiting. It also helped that Molly would be the one doing the autopsy report, so all the 'facts' would match up.

Now all Sherlock had left was four assassins to kill, a simple enough task for him, or so he thought as he grinned to himself reclining in a chair in Molly's flat.

Molly had just woken up, she was still wearing her cat pajamas and large furry slippers as she wondered into the living room with a cuppa coffee.

"You're up early Sherlock."

"Didn't sleep actually, so I'm up late, not early."

Molly had turned the tele onto a news channel, barely paying attention to it. "When will you be coming that you're still alive?" Molly had once crushed over Sherlock, but after he had been secretly staying at her flat she started to loath him. He would insult her every chance he could get, he stayed up at strange hours making all manner of odd noises, and even worse, talked incessantly about his flat mate John. It was enough to drive anyone mad.

"Don't know yet,"

"When will you know? I mean, people are very upset about you, I went to your funeral yesterday."

"I know, I saw you there."

"You saw me?! What if someone had spotted you? Don't you think you're being a bit cruel to everyone."

"There are things I have to do before I can 'come back', just trust me on that. You're the only one that no one really pays any attention to, so I know if I stay here no one will find out. Besides, no one expects to see someone they believe to be dead."

Molly bit her lip at the insult, she knew she was practically invisible, but it still hurt that Sherlock would say it out loud and with no thought behind it. Just stated it as a dry fact, which it practically was to be fair.

A news report came on that hardly surprised Sherlock "Funeral of fake genius detective took place yesterday at the Forest Lawn Cemetery on 2nd and Cherry." A picture of Sherlock wearing his very hated hat popped up on the screen.

"Why is it always the hat picture?" Sherlock mumbled to himself.

Molly wasn't sure if she should change the channel to lighten the mood or if he really wanted to hear what the media had to say about him. He seemed more offended at the hat picture then by the title of 'fake genius'.

John awoke to the sun beaming down on him from the large window in the living room, he had fallen asleep in an awkward position while admiring Sherlock's violin. His entire body felt stiff as he got to his feet and attempted to stretch. He sat back down and closed his eyes again as he slowly recalled his dream. It was of Sherlock falling, no, jumping off the roof of that building. Every detail had been crystal clear, but none of it made any sense. It had been nearly a week, but the things that Sherlock had said to him on the phone, they still didn't sit right with him. Sherlock's last words still rang in his head, "It's all a magic trick. Goodbye John."

'No. It couldn't be. How could it?' The seeds of doubt had been sewn once again.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Baker Street Irregulars

**A/N: Lot's of references in this chapter, apologies if you didn't catch them all. Also, I got depressed with this story which is why I haven't been updating it. I decided I really should at least finish it. **

**The Baker Street Irregulars is a real historical group of people that were Sherlock fans in then late 1800's early 1900's that would wear black in mourning of Sherlock's death…. Even though he's a fictional character… And people think the current fandom is strange.**

* * *

Chapter 5

The Baker Street Irregulars

He wasn't sure exactly when the small but growing crowd had started. _Did it begin with just a single person? Surely there were not so many a week ago._ Twelve young men and women would culminate outside of 221b Baker street at 5 am on the dot every morning. Or were they up to 13 of them now? John had a hard time keeping track as the crowd wore all black as if in mourning.

_'In mourning for Sherlock?_' He wondered.

Some days John was sure he had figured out who the leader and organizer of the group was and the next day he would be positive it was someone else. He waited three weeks in quiet staring through his window at their small gatherings. On rare occasions he would catch them sneaking a peek at him. They always left half an hour after they met and due to the earliness of the hour they arrived, they were never seen by anyone save for himself.

It was on the second morning of the third week that John had started to notice the Baker Street Irregulars as he referred to them as, that he decided to join them and find out what it was they did outside his flat. He hadn't realized it until after the fact and wasn't sure if it was coincidence or his subconscious telling him to fit in, but he wore his black jeans, black jacket, and a black cap when he walked out the flat that mourning. The only color on him was the midnight blue of his former flatmate's scarf that he had slowly started bringing with him every where he went if only to feel closer to it's previous owner; and the silver of his aluminum cane that he had started to need soon after the incident.

His slightly shaking hand nervously twisted the door handle open at the bottom of the stairs that led out the flat. He had no idea why these people met out outside his residence, but it was about damn time he found out. John swallowed and closed his eyes for a brief moment before stepping out.

The twelve well dressed people had been speaking in low whispers until John stepped out, the sudden silence was unsettling. A young woman from the back stepped forward with confidence, like the others she wore all black and looked as if she was going to a funeral.

"Dr. Watson?" She smiled. "We've been wondering if you would ever join us."

John's eyes wondered back and forth through the group, they were all under 30 he quickly noted, 7 men and 5 women.

"And I've been wondering why you lot gather outside my flat." He meant that to sound significantly more bitter then it came out, he even caught himself giving a slight grin. "My Baker Street Irregulars."

A short women to his side let out a giggle at John's nickname for the group and the woman in front of him gave a pleased smile. _Not an easily offended crowd then_, he noted. It took him a moment longer to realize they were all staring intently at his _or rather Sherlock's_ scarf. John nervously leaned on his cane.

"So then, are you Goths? Or are you here to find platform 9 and 3/4?"

A taller man laughed at his sarcastic question, "You could call us fans of sorts, or the die hard assortment."

"I'm a fan of the films, but I don't think I quite catch on."

The woman nearest to him spoke again, "Fans of Sherlock. Fans of yours as well, the blog and your adventures."

"Adventures?" John raised an eyebrow. She obviously meant the cases that he helped Sherlock on, he had never before thought of them as 'adventures', but in a way they really were.

"Of course. Would you join us for breakfast?" She sounded hopeful.

John's grip on his cane tightened. _Fans then._ He was told by his therapist to stop looking for Sherlock in everything that he did. That he should start a new blog about his current life and try to move on. But he couldn't bare the thought. He still hadn't moved out of the flat like he had originally anticipated and he began to suspect he never would. Something unseen kept him bound to it, loyalty to a true friend he thought. "Lead the way."

* * *

A/N: So I'm reviving this story, it wont be very long, but I decided I know a direction I would like it to go in. I'm sorry for leaving it for so long.


End file.
